Late-night Chenin and quiet instructions

Satie on the turntable — a prelude that sketches itself slowly. A chilled glass of bone-dry Chenin Blanc in hand, the Pigalle duplex softened under a low cedar lamp; the hardwood read like plans beneath that light.

A young man knelt in the corner, reading the rules on my clipboard before he crossed the threshold; good readers earn better seats. He moved with the restraint I taught, and a second pour was my small, deliberate reward.